“White Racism Does Not Diet Here?” Personal Writer’s Journal Excerpts October of Year 2024

 Sociopath IRC “Chat Room” Boho Cliques plus plus — Sociology — 

Personal Journal excerpts, October of Y2024:

THE JOURNAL EXCERPTS…

Notes 2024-10

—-------

 2024-10-01:

I’m watching the debate of the Vice Presidential candidates.

I distributed boxes of kleenex and invited neighbors to visit my apartment.

2024-10-03:

I just dropped all my Spring 2025 classes at CSU. I can’t go to school because I am too physically crippled, they keep drugging me with poisons, and Bob and the PMs won't leave me alone. I see the grand conspiracy around me (they just flooded my apartment again), and I can barely survive, let alone try to return to school.I have no one backing me up.

I’m withdrawing (and being driven away) from online chatting and discussion forums. They never ever work or help.

Broadcast TV is just as bad as I expected it to be: lesbian-land and civic lies. And pretty much streaming TV is like that, too. In fact nearly all media are like that.

Boy, does my life suck! 

I’m losing all the time, not because I’m bad or wrong but because I am a disempowered man in lesbian-land and of a hated racial minority type.

I wonder what will happen next.

I need better food and clothing.

I don’t think a good job is coming my way…probably forever.

I hope the PM brainwashing doesn’t start up again. I want to keep my composure for good.

My left arm and hand are really unwell.

My diseases continue, including the skin problems and bug infestation of my body.

Everybody pretends that they don’t hear me—for decades—but really they do.

“Crosspatch Crockett:” not jaded but cowed.

I’m wary of fighting, but I’m struggling to survive and to avoid suffering.

My enemies want me to feel bad and fail all the time. They are numerous. I’m at odds with my society. I’m a Jew to be sure. And male.

Now, what more basic learning do I require about my society?

——

I have a kennel cough from the bugs in my respiratory tract.

Between my life circumstances and whatever I am drugged with, I feel kind of depressed. The PMs just aggravate my situation and bad feelings. Pop culture media like music and TV mostly get me down. Online chatting and discussion are no good to me. I have no friends or allies. The “churches” are nasty shit. My money has really dried up. Mom and my family are egregiously hateful toward me. I’m going through hard times, just as I turn 54 years old. 

The dialectical convergence of duality leaves me feeling lost and swept by the winds of history. It’s the Void again. My attempts and efforts are being frustrated and spurned. (Rebel?) Pig Whyte given the cold shoulder and shove into what? The grave? More prison? Deathly starvation?

The PMs quote Walt quoting VU: “It’s so cold in Alaska…” I feel so like a Jew in NAZI Germany. It’s truly a great difference of opinion: “poe-tay-toe”” versus “poe-tah-toe.” It’s Big Endian versus Little Endian with sell-outs like Beana involved.

I won’t dissolve.

TST, Mom is engineering all of this with a Berky (Behaviorism) Box that I am trapped inside of. 

TST, I am abnormally an Ordinary/politician, and not a sociopath. These differ in perceptions, values, and agendas. Most of all, Ordinaries are selfless/communal and self-effacing, where sociopaths are selfish and schizoid.

——

2024-10-04:

The putrid elections carry on. The sham democracy continues in the media. I suppose the election results will presage a slight change in my way of life. And then there is the “War” brewing.

The bugs in this apartment are so nasty. They crawl all over me. They bite and sting. I itch. Invisible bugs?

My state ID still claims that I am male and mulatto with blue eyes. The file has my old ID photo: I have Asian eyes, light skin, and unkinky black hair, too. I wonder what it means. Maybe that contributes to my customer service problems. Hmm?

What will happen to me? I worry a bit.

Hopewell was awful for me. I was drugged with downers and starved. I was harassed and ostracized. That damned Mario and nasty Beana were there plotting against me and getting rich.

Maybe I’ll start drinking pop again, but I’m worried that if I buy it, I’ll find it poisined again.

I wonder what the real course of history looks like.

My nose stopped running.

Maybe I’ll have to join the military (French Foreign Legion) or take a shit menial job.

I guess I can’t get the vegetables and fruit—especially salads—that I want. What shall I buy, and what can I afford? I need meat and dairy, too. I’ve been malnourished for years now.

I’m working on a new project—a musical playlist based on the IRC world.

——

As usual, the PMs are ruining my life and perspective. They keep me from absorbing the media. They keep shutting me down and giving me thought blockages. Half the time, I just sit or lay there, stunned and confused by noise, radiation, pains, or the PMs shouting at me or droning. Where does the noise come from? 

It comes out of speakers in the walls, air conditioner, or refrigerator. The noises often are a high pitch tone, fuzz, or whooshing water noises from plumbing.

I have conversations with the PMs. They respond to me and vice-versa, and seem to be actors and producers. They act like such assholes and jerks. They are bawdy and raunchy like shock jocks on radio and TV. 

The PMs have been with me 24/7 since 2002. They had haunted many times before that, but after July 2002, they became much worse. The PMs are 100% not hallucinations, imaginary, or a symptom of  the fictional disease schizophrenia.

In our society, I am a slave. I work doing TV-based theater in mostly puppet-like ways. I’m not stupid or very badly educated, but I have a fairly low status like a “nigger” in the Old South. I don’t work alone, ever. I have skills, knowledge, and a university degree. I occasionally do certain kinds of arts and crafts, including cooking, photography, writing, and computer programming. 

I’m not paid very well, but I subsist and keep striving. I am indeed a committed Communist, so I don’t always complain. But sometimes I scream loudly and whine. I can’t seem to get much acclaim or what I want to eat very often. I experience constant dukkha, including the existential kind. I’m happy as a fucking clam.

I have odd conversations with people all the time. These conversations seem phony and staged, and the people I converse with usually seem to be actors. Some of it seems scripted, while some of it is more improvisational. 

My family also is in show business.

I make music sometimes, too.

Most of the time, I have severe social disabilities, both mental and physical—as though the distinction between these things is real. My disabilities are created by drugging, surgery, diet, conditioning, hardware, and hobbling workspaces. Without all the disabilities in effect, I am pretty capable in limited functions. It’s kind of like in Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron” stories. I feel endlessly frustrated, stymied, and dissatisfied.

——

I did some bookkeeping and made an online purchase of Ex-Lax. I could use some more money in the bank.

Now, I’m downloading freeware ebooks and audiobooks from Apple iBooks. Next, I’ll try this with the other three major vendors in my life.

——

2024-10-05:

Bob, as a PM, has been raping, torturing, mind-fucking, and dominating me again. It’s a form of BDSM and involves endless rituals disguised as theater schtick for entertaining some kind of audience, the nature of which is never revealed. He has been doing this to me for over 45 years, every single day. He is a pervert, rapist, and sociopath. I want him dead immediately—like right now. With my parents’ help and money, he has ruined my whole life. They ruined school, work, and home for me.

Mom is very interested in making me dirt poor and having my status demoted (by her schemings and machinations) till I am dirty (like a pervert or criminal) and ugly and can command no services or respect from other people around me or from institutions I come into contact with. She stymies all my efforts and ambitions. Basically, she has me reduced to slime and wants me to have constant chagrin and low self-esteem. My life sucks. I can’t even get good things to eat or a decent haircut.

All my life, whenever I tried to absorb media, I was spied on and had my studying interfered with. Everything I read, listened to, or watched was censored to give me a distorted worldview. This included news media and textbooks. Also, I was always being drugged and messed around with to make learning—even during things like baking cookies with Mom—quite weird. This is how I have a learning disability and have always been retarded in my intellectual growth. It’s a form of social disability that seems very unjustified and cruel.

Did I ever figure things out? Not often, as knowledge was very slowly meted out to me—too little/too late. I can’t catch up with where I am supposed to be: I’m retarded. It makes some people feel so glad, and they like to gloat. Not only do they gloat, but they also often say I got what I deserved for being some kind of badman all my life—blame the victim? People conspire against me and gang up on me, all my life. They won’t often admit it either and snide me with little sideways remarks and glad-handing.

——

2024-10-09:

TST, the Bradley Manor staff and the other residents are paid by my Mom—mostly in fine drugs and dining and fun activities— to cooperate with each other and my Mom, while operating and conspiring against me. It was like that at Cato House, the state hospital, Carington Park, Shorewood, and many other places. 

I watched most of “The Lawnmower Man” on late night, weekday UHF broadcast TV. I couldn’t discern many of the show’s meanings. Partly with the PMs’ help, I made some sense of it.

—-

The neuropathy is really caused by the devouring itinerant bugs inside my flesh.

TST, the professors and advisors at school after school favored wealthy women over me and misled me, while I struggled with poverty and being shunned, shyed, and left out of the loop. 

Code Red is such funny poppy stuff and affordable like cheap beer or cola. I think it is good food and a performance enhancer. And now, I know how to get at it.

—-

2024-10-10:

I got $400 from Mom yesterday. I got an order of groceries from Giant Eagle in Rocky River for about $121 and ordered a new Lands End coat. Since then I have been luxuriating in good food and drink. This has been an expensive party for about 15 hours. I’ll have to cut back. 

The tap water is very bad again–sickening actually–so I ordered 6 flats of Dasani to be delivered in the morning: $10/flat * 6 flats (including shipping).

Every time I start to study, or pay careful attention to details on TV, the PMs spray poison gas on me. It makes me cough and burns my eyes, so that my concentration is ruined.

Most of my efforts that allowed much traction are centered around homemaking and home economics.

The PMs, when being like my stepfather Bob, want “hold me down and smother me to rape me,” because it is fun to them. They often spray sedatives, hold my breath or slow it way down with Yoke, electrocute me, and glaze my eyes over, making me confused and even pass out sometimes.

—-

2024-10-12:

The USB extension cable does not work to connect the TV to a USB stick.

I did 4 medium loads of laundry yesterday. I also hauled 2 out of 6 flats of bottled water up the stairs. I took a shower and 3 dumps. I napped, drugged up. I ate 3 meals in the dining room downstairs.

2024-10-15:

TST, Mom wants me to be poor, disabled, and unsuccessful. She and her henchmen are in opposition to me at all times. I can’t make money; I can’t get cooperation; I can’t get access to much useful information; I can’t get healthy; and I can’t get clean.

The PMs won’t let me watch TV and get anything out of it. I search for a good program and tune in. Then the disruption starts up almost immediately! I get blasted and distracted. I can’t stand it. I can’t prevent it. The learning quickly stops.

Frustration.

I’m functionally and financially broke, but I still  want to buy some more things, including foods.

”Freedom works best for the free.” — me

2024-10-16:

TST, they keep pretending that they want to lecture me or question me on topics, when they really don’t and want to spray poison gas on me, make loud noise, blast me, and basically smother and torture me. They want to tie me up and detain me, while being frustrating and elusive. They want to play baiting games and make me jump through hoops in ways that are as embarrassing or scary as they can manage to make them. The PMs are being total creep and entertaining themselves. All the while, they distract me from tasks and media, and weave delusional worldviews for me to get lost in. 

This is how I live with the PMs, 24/7/365. It’s a bad life for me as a slave and rape toy. I get very little out of it, and would rather be dead. TST, I constantly struggle to improve my lifestyle, but my Mom, her henchmen, and the PMs always foil my attempts.

—-

2024-10-17:

The coat I bought from Lands End was stolen off the front porch. I called the police. They say they will come here, so I can file a report of the theft.

——

2024-10-20:

The PMs (basically something like Bob) pretends to start informing me and warning me. Then it quickly turns into deception and digression followed by nonsense.And then loud noises and static come on, and I get smothered and tortured. Then he molests me. Then I have my short-term memory and attention span attenuated with radiation, chloral hydrate, and sometimes some isopropyl alcohol, so I’m like a zombie. I call this being “nulled-out” or “obliterated.” Bob says he’s making me stupid, like a retarded little child.

It amuses him so much. He says he is fantasizing that he is entertaining Angie when she was six years old by shitting on me—her enemy and rival. He’s also entertaining Mom and himself. He calls me stupid, feckless, and retarded. He says he’s laughing at me and tries to stun me. This happens dozens of times everyday. He dissolves my life and ambitions into slavish service to stupid fart jokes or the like—like a amorally paralyzing shock jock show. As if everything is nothing—nihilistic dissolution to amuse a slowly sinking ship of sociopathy. And the band plays on… And the tune says “shuddup.”

I got everything I could get done from my to-do list today and yesterday. Now, I just need money and other resources to work with. The TV set is working as well as it can be without good Internet ATM access for streaming video. I got the hub, VLC, and the USB drives working with musical audio and video. I reset the TV and set it back up. Local TV works, but the programming sucks most all the time. YT works sometimes, but the content is so dumbed down and cheesy. Amazon Music lags, dies, and buffers most all the time. The network is not working but why I don’t know. Is the problem in this building, with Verizon, or with Amazon or Apple? I don’t know.

Mom won’t give me more money, and I want it mostly to buy groceries and few cheap odds and ends. There are about 14 more days till my next SSDI check comes in. Mom has been phony, withdrawn (cold), deceptive like a snarling dog, and nasty like a bitchy woman. Things on IRC are less veiled to my awareness, although the phoniness continues with the alternate identities and spying. 

I sent many emails out recently, but I received not much response. I think the outgoing emails are being blocked on the border router and never reach their destinations.

—-

The lesbian conspiracy lumbers on, stepping on my toes all the time and ignoring my desires and savoring my chagrin and pain.

My life is like a wild goose chase on a rodent training wheel. It goes nowhere. It gets nothing done. It’s ineffectual and frustrating. It’s intellectually defunct. It’s infantile in scope. It’s busywork in most ways. My hands are tied with tar babies and the corrupt guard dogs. The art that I produce is not getting anything done. I’m dirt poor, hungry, and sickly. I get no thanks. I get no respect. I’m surrounded by ghetto sociopaths and swine. I’m in a mobile prison situation. Everyone lies to me.

——

2024-10-21:

The PMs try to delude me into thinking that the critical monitoring of me and spying on me is not just the PMs themselves, along with them thought-controlling me.

Last evening, I disconnected my TV from the Internet. It’s not very smart now, but the local TV program guide grid has sorting and filtering. Also, I can play mp3s and mp4s that sound loud and clear.

I can’t use the VLC media player app on the TV, when it’s not connected to the Internet. The TV’s built-in video player is disabled, too. Conspiracy?

—-

I’m sick of being with these PMs, who are some aspect of Bob’s personality–infantile, narcissistic, sociopathic, rapist, jealous, criminal, sadistic, whiny, immoral, nihilistic, uncaring, selfish, greedy, etc. They are relentless and have been ruining my life 24/7 for decades, since I was a preschooler. They keep beating up on me, and trashing me, for my Mom and her lesbo gang’s pleasure. They do it on entertainment TV for big money.

The PMs haunt and harass me. I hear their voice in the whispering winds, often coming out blowing air conditioners or the hum of fluorescent lights. They aren’t hallucinations at all, but are disguised to resemble them. It’s a slanderous hoax called “schizophrenia.” 

The PMs distract me and fuck with my head. They are played by theater actors talking into microphones or typing into speech synthesizers. They work from scripts and are always with me, everywhere I go–even in cars, on trains and buses, and even in Canada. They play psychological games and drug, torture, and try to brain-wash me–sometimes succeeding.

—-

I am supposedly moving across town to another bad place called Franklin House, tomorrow. I feel groggy, sickly, and drugged, and I’m worried about the move–basically from one prison to another. There are a lot of belongings to move! I have no winter coat.

My nose, sinuses, eyes  and head hurt. There are burning plastic fumes in the air that burn, make me cough, and poison me.

Mom still has not given me any more money. I’ve been requesting some for many days.

My problems seem engineered and imposed by malefactors working with (and for) my Mom. This is just SNAFU.

I think someone lined my drinking cups with a coating of poison. Every time I take a drink, my head quickly feels painful and wooden and my abdominal muscles cramp. The beverages are probably poisoned, too. It’s not a cheap, small, or unsophisticated operation that goes on around me. Society has so much time, human capital, and machinery at its disposal, and it comes down like a sledgehammer and pencil rain on my poor head all the time. I feel so violated and victimized.

——

2024-10-23:

Mom was here in my apartment on Tuesday afternoon. She was being insanely phony. The move is postponed.

I was up all of last night, watching TV mostly.

I was drugged up and slept all day on Wednesday, till about 7:15 pm. Someone poisoned me right after breakfast.

I made a summary inventory.

The PM is screeching out of the vents, zapping me in the head, and spraying poison on me. My head aches. My eyes hurt. My lungs burn.

I’m mostly incommunicado, as my communications channels (IRC, SMS, email, cell voice, etc.) are being sapped.

The show continues.

——

2024-10-24:

“NEW” VIEW:

I am revisiting a way of understanding how my body and environment interact. It seems that I am “wearing” the equivalent of VR goggles, and the way my body and environment (my apartment for example) “look” to me is illusory.

I seem to be in a somewhat different apartment (than I “see”) that has torture attendants (perhaps robotic) and lots of bugs in it with me.  A lot of the pains and weird sensations are from being mutilated and manipulated by the attendants and having bugs crawl on and in and out of my body. I think I must have a very different body than is apparent—much more mechanical and…interesting. 

It must make the TV show much more entertaining and effective.

I can’t help but keep finding a parallel between my environment and “Solaris.”

TST, “The Whale” had the same problems with his parents. 

TST, I am used for sexual gratification and reproduction in my society.

Then there are Truman Burbank and Truman Capote. 

“Breakfast at Tiffanies”

“The Lawnmower Man”

——

2024-10-26:

TST, Mom has declared bankruptcy for my estate. That’s why my food is so bad and the services are drying up?

TST, Mom wants to kill me (slowly and elegantly) and steal my estate’s equity and collect (leech off of) “survivor’s’ benefits” through my many dependents/descendants (through Social Security, HUD, HCFA, and federal and state holdings, like “roads and bridges”). ”Kiln/CHOAM.” Mom holds many of these people in guardianship slavery, including Catana, and many of them are on disability and/or minors.

Mom had lied and told me that she was no longer my guardian. She revealed that she really is still my guardian, two days ago, in an email message.

TST, Mom has promised her henchmen some kind of big bonus (or perhaps manumission), if I die “just right.” TST, Charles and many others are involved in this project and conspiracy—is it a Party?

TST, Mom is a powerful Tribune—landowner, tax and tribute collector, slave auctioneer, augur, propagandist, civil justice, and censor.

All that I am promised (for what it’s worth) is “enough to eat,” the just dues of a slave, throughout history. I continue to worry about starving to sickness, suffering, and death. My meals make me feel quite sick, even psychologically disabled. The parasites gnaw on my being. “Give us, this day, our daily bread…” Provender. Grailstone. Welfare state. “We’re on the road to nowhere?”

To war. Noise. Stop.

“Keep this nigger boy running!”

“Open hearts. Open minds.”

If this spooky Church would Just get off my back!

I need to read books—Magic Parnassus.

TST, my caseworkers and some others, and maybe still Beana, are some kind of Church people. TST, I am rather Jewish and impious. I have long felt estranged from Catholic doctrine. TST, the Church knows I feel like using political power to “hurt someone” and want to shut down the Church in most ways. I am very odd to most people, because I don’t pray to “God” for assistance in my political and economic struggles with other people, all my life? I teach Men, including slaves, to “fish and read” and to think, which is what gets me into trouble. 

Am I dissociated? 

Am I already dead…or retired?

I can’t get at the truth.

I am a politician. I strive to be a statesman. I have a strange desire to rule all of humanity, although not indefinitely—like Nathan Brazil. I don’t really hide it from other people, all the way. I feel I am being shamed all the time. I used to get so paranoid. “Charlie Brown, you’re a clown.” “You’re not the one for the job.”

Why do so many people feign stupidity and ignorance? Is it subterfuge or decorum? “Sickos Underground?” 

They seek to dumb me down, discredit, and disable me.

They treat me like shit, as if I’m a pervert. They cast me out and blacklist me. Right? 

We have had some kind of serious disagreement for a long time now.

Who are they? 

The Sociopathic Union? 

The Lesbian Conspiracy? 

Both? 

Who?

My parents and family?

——

TST, my environment is truly like the island in “The Truman Show.” It’s totally artificial and misleading.

——

11:35 am: The #35 toilet is clogged and its bowl is full of water. I’m going to call the office.

11:40 am: I called. Shirley said, come down and get a plunger.

11:50 am: I went down and brought up the plunger, which I employed successfully. The toilet is operating again.

—-

2024-10-30:

I slept last night, and then I woke up at about four or five in the morning.

I’ve been writing my ass off all day, most of all things. I sent out many emails and visited many points of view. All the while, I have been working with laxatives in my system and slowly purging. I’ve been being gassed and zapped with radiation and sonics all day. I ate a snack plus breakfast and a modest dinner meal. I drank bottled water.

I thought my writing might help my situation, but it seems to have all been for naught—squelched. Now, Mom and others (not my PMs) know how I see and feel, if they didn’t already.

I need food and bottles of water, before two or three days pass. Mom is not responding. She is probably laughing at what she continues getting away with. I hope nothing really bad happens to me. I hope I survive in most ways. *fingers crossed*

I analyzed, and sliced and diced. I looked at lists and numbers, seeking order and patterns. (Alvin the chipmunk said these words, too? Oy!)

——

TST, Angie truly and cynically plotted against me all her life, and she is not alone in this. Institutions smothered me all my life—more or less facets of the government. And my parents betrayed me.

TST, Mom even is thinking about using imminent domain proceedings (or even the military draft) against me to steal my freedom and property with some sort of legal due process. Oy, tyranny!

It’s all so patina and poetic. Par excellence. It’s “great shit” to program and process in a grist mill. Purgatory. Love is too strong and clean a word for lust for continuation of the species.

Simply the Minister of Propaganda and the Handicapper General in a very pretty, elegant, droll, and bureaucratic pavane: “Moon River and me…” flowing on and on, in indecent political correctness, like a navel-gazing bee in a hive-shaped bonnie. Truey, it is.

——

I’m worried about being whisked away into a “hospital” and wiped or mangled. Or something like killed.

I smell bad (am offensive) to most other people, so I need social distancing to work for me and society as a whole. “Ziggy sang…guitars.” Scat. I have to live lonely, like a freak, on a stage—Platy Puss (or Plant Pussycat). Korba is a ghola of Abelurd Harkonnen, Pauline Atreides son from Old Earth, raised on Dune to be a Judge of the Change. He notes, “It’s a Sign of the Times.” Or once I said, “These kids today! I must be getting old.” I was nineteen that day and about to graduate from 16th Grade. I was promoted to a virtual graduate student and kept on at Michigan State for two more years of skills enhancement and practicums. Then I was denied tenure for being annoyingly straight and returned home to Ohio for scheduling and trials by crisis. 

My Mom is Truly my harshest critic and worst ally. My stepfather and coach is my closest friend but an annoying asshole to be sure and a fairly angry drunk, who is jealous of me and not Angie, who is jealous of me *for* him. Bob is schizoid and very sadistic and aggressive and likes to have raunchy fun with “loser people,” who he has to provide with daycare and lessons in being a sore loser without dying of cold and starvation very often. [More “answers” are on the way…]

——

I’m being poisoned with digestive tract clumping cat litter. That’s why I am so horribly constipated for years and years. It is the stool hardener problem.

“Why am I always so low on spending money (cash)? Mom eats up all my cash in ways that look like a greedy housewife on drugs, who is a spendthrift maniac. She borrows on my produce endlessly and won’t pay me more than SSI+ and toxicity on mood-altering substances and household chemicals mixed into food and drink described as “meds” intended to treat me for my ugly ways of desiring unhealthy behaviors and thoughts in sociopaths, who dominate black culture and mores. ‘Why can’t they stop their sickening behaviors and thoughts?’ He says. He literally hates their [really sociopaths not blacks in general] guts, and they know it and basically intend to destroy themselves less than he would, given any power to kill “black folks” [actually sociopaths]. And Mom is the evil Queen of Sociopathy and already well aware of it, when I was born from her womb on the “dawning of the age of the cage (guage of yield is Meeee) and aquarium ($lavery is on the Boomer elite’s agenda in the closet on TV and radio for kids and most prols) and the Sociopathic Revolt of 1972 (federal) and 1973 (Ohio). 

The gates of hell and Nazi nastiness opened up wide. Bob and Mom had nimble fingers on their minds: Showbiz Kids singing “Brother (Mother, Father) can you spare a dime…for food and, now, even water.” Most Boomers had zero intention of passing wealth and power on to their own children or grandchildren, and were not planning to die anytime soon—as in before their kids or “grandbabies.” They knew what current technologies offered them for Faustian Bargain—betraying the trust of their children like Rhodan’s Thinker.

——

After I passed 10th Grade in 5th Form handily, I received my assignment from the “Federal Designation Board:” political aide, major general, milk dudEE, stud, model citizen and cleaning agent, industrial slave, armbruster, porter, chief-of-staff, goldilocks, Golda Meir sickness, systems analyst, head assistant manager, fry chef, singer/canter, military planner, district civil defense director, prosecutor in high court, rhetorician, writer of clarity, comitty, jam/staple/minder-binder, art director/producer, priest of the Dominican Order (Department of Propagating the Faith), psychiatrist, rabbiT, teacher’s pet, mathematician analyst, housecleaner, dishwasher, patient of doctors of the Church, face dancer, cyborg, terrible lyre using zithers (who simply cannot be believed often enough to earn currency and respectful compliance for cheap), 

—-

2024-10-31:

”A dreidel is a dreg or ‘usul’ and a childhood plaything. It is traditionally used for begging for food and alms, and for summoning demons from hell to provide unclean services, like calling to a junkie whore for a blowjob. Children spin the dreidel repeatedly seeking ‘God's Permission’ to eat a drugged treat, when the wind symbol (“blow”) called out by the director of the puzzlement is discovered by the government sponsored handmaid demoness, the school nurse-psychologist, who is carefully assessing the children for many traits, including sociopathy and drug-seeking.“

 [All humans have dissociative identity condition, which is only a clinical disorder, when it is dysfunctionally causing ‘disability and distress’ or social deviance in daily living activities.]

[ I eat shit and try to save face by not ruffling feathers and hiding myself behind diplomatic formality, as I earnestly attempt to avoid lying to everyone, like the slave that I am. I’m such an awful liar.]

“Others find me contemptibly smug and pretentious, till they inspect me, like they are rapists on holiday (to me) and like defrocking vigilantes (to themselves), who troll and bearbait me sometimes for years on end, and basically won’t admit defeat, because they are insightful schizoid and sociopathic people, who simply can’t figure out why I weeble and wobble but don’t fall down like Humpty Dumpty is supposed do, out of deep, hard-core, shameful deviance and baggage. 

“They frisk me. They bait me. They call me names and harass me, sort of like I am a gay, Jewish, felonious pedophile nerd using drugs on food stamps in a dunce cap and flood pants on a Saturday night in a gay bar or chat room at the end of the month in the wrong part of town. 

“Then, when I don’t turn tail, and talk like a real smart loser on welfare, who’s manners are mildly offensive to black women and black jews, they try to test me out for status culture like education and diction, without violating their own mandates or revealing their closet identity in the black ghetto social ecosystem.

“When they find out that  I admit I am a poor male on mental disability and, then, locate my websites, they really can’t stand what I look like—a garden variety loser wanting attention or thrills by vicarious interactions online. Sometimes they think ‘He’s a feisty ‘spider monkey,’ or black jew, who won’t give up hope of getting off the dole and making good money…but how can get work in today’s job climate, some wonder?’

“ ‘I know,’ they say. ‘He needs to suck up to his parents, like we loser girls do.’ If the girl is over forty, she starts to suspect I have some kind of baggage or deviant traits that are holding me back, and my poverty and employment ‘prove’ this, till they can’t find my faults or baggage—except he’s stridently political and acts molestor-like, in odd, pushy ways like a ‘creep,’ who is really popular and sweet and good-looking to no one like himself.

“Why won’t he stop clinging (?) to his parents, if he can’t or won’t suck up to them successfully?

“What does the ‘creep’ want with us girls online? Not money. Not netsex. Not transportation. Not food. Not advice. Not weirdly needy pseudo social support. Company? Yes. But why is he so odd? 

“Because he is a Catholic priest who doesn’t feel very churchy or devout but has no time to waste saving the People from themselves and folly—not the devil or (at first glance) anything like Sin. Then, he gets angry and loudly denounces and lectures people, till it pisses the local freeboy (self-respecting welfare case) sociopaths and won’t get off his high horse, when he is poor and wretched to the point he can’t fend off their attacks from behind his back…and secrets get out that his family doesn’t give him money much more than ten dollars a week, most of the time. 

“Scandalous Jason…who clearly must be dirty as sin…now looks ready to undress emotionally and gang-rape by the local girl gang online, but the bullies get told to wait till he needs support by his Mom’s operatives in the online neighborhood and calling circles.

“Mom found out why these girls are so angry at her son, the creepy weirdo, who can’t be trounced but only shouted down and told off for trumped up things that basically look like really cheap shots in most people’s minds, till it is revealed by someone like **** or **** that Jason lives in…poverty and…won’t talk down to rich freeboys less often than he wants to, yet really wants to chat with us, like a needy loser. 

“Can’t you see, y’all, that he is *offensive* to any “Normal” (sane? cool? self-righteously schizoid?) person, like us (retarded?) houseboys in drag with everything we need given to us, like the (freeloading, fantasist) sociopathic princesses that we are. 

“Because he’s poor, male, and ‘shamefully’ being imprisoned and poisoned like a contemptible ‘loser’—and not ‘white’ or ‘cool’ like us in a suburban housing projects with real *clean* things to do—like watch cable TV, chat online for hours, play pirated or free trainer-conditioner games for sociopaths (and certain other losers), read lightweight novels, comics, and other prol-feed, conduct bizarre debates about things in popular state-run propaganda entertainment media and ‘news’ and basic general education programs, without any intellectual honesty and with rapist intentions, or play stinky pranks and tell fart jokes, about things like tripping crippled people or killing the president, that we learn from sources like sitcoms, drive-time shock jocks, and other prol-feed thought control media programming (including dumb-down YouTube tripe and podcasts). 

“It’s like ‘We Real Cool!’ the Gwendolyn Brooks poem about high school dropouts being ‘boho,’ only we aren’t teens anymore and seductively proud in having our precious comfort zones not often challenged and being well-fed. 

“Brats! (“feminine canines”)! Lazy bums! Con-artists! Immoral scum! Perverts! Seditious bastards! Intellectually challenged dumb-fucks! TV talk kiddies!

”I strip you naked and transparent, you un-American frauds.”

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MUSIC VIDEOS APPENDIX…

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